LOGAN
Logan stood near the window on the top floor, watching the dying sunlight smear itself across the hills. The house they were looting was quiet—too quiet. Dust hung in the air, motionless, like everything inside had been holding its breath for years.
He turned from the window, the silence closing in around him. He hadn't seen Dina since they split up to sweep the place. Something gnawed at the edges of his thoughts. A feeling he couldn't name. Off.
He headed down the stairs slowly, footsteps measured, senses tuned sharp. Halfway down, a sound broke the stillness.
A man's voice.
Rough. Slurred.
"...take this bitch to the camp," the voice said, laced with amusement. "Probably get a reward."
Logan froze, heart spiking.
The voice kept going, now muttering, like talking to himself. "Let me call Ivan."
Footsteps followed. Then nothing. Like the house swallowed it whole.
Logan moved. Fast. Light. He avoided the creaky boards as best he could, each step quieter than the last.
He found her in the kitchen.
Dina lay on the tile, blood matting the side of her head. Her shotgun was gone. Her bag was half-emptied. Like someone had gone through it in a hurry.
Logan dropped beside her. "Dina," he whispered.
No answer.
She was breathing—barely. Pulse weak, but there. Still alive.
His hands shook. Think.
He looked around. No weapons.
Then her bag.
He tore it open, fingers searching. His hand wrapped around something cold.
The revolver.
His breath caught. The same one. The same goddamn gun the man upstairs used on himself back in that dark room.
Logan flipped it open.
One bullet.
"Of course," he muttered.
No spare rounds. No backup. Just a broken lighter and a bloodied medkit.
He checked the drawers. Empty. Then the knife block. One left. He took it.
Knife in hand, revolver tucked into his waistband, Logan crept through the hallways.
The house was rotting. Hollow. A place that had forgotten warmth long ago.
Then he heard it.
The same voice. Closer now.
"IVAN, YOU MOTHERFUCKER! YOU CAN'T DO ONE THING RIGHT!"
A pause.
"I'm sorry," came a second, weaker voice. "My aim isn't like yours."
The first voice again, disgusted. "You dumb shit. We killed your group and took you in. Should've taken the other one."
Then the same man from before said, "There's a woman I knocked out inside. Might be the infamous Dina."
Infamous?
Logan didn't have time to think about it.
"She's the one they've been talking about over the radio," the voice continued. "You carry her to the base. I'll check the house. Grab her stuff—she had a shotgun. Probably still outside."
Footsteps. One set. Coming in.
Logan ducked low behind the table.
The man walked in, alone.
Logan struck.
The knife punched into the man's throat. Warm blood sprayed across Logan's arm as the man gurgled, tried to scream—but he was already collapsing. The thud was final. Ugly.
Logan stood over the body, breathing hard.
He had just killed a man.
Not from a distance. Not clean. Not quick. This was up close. Flesh. Bone. Blood.
The man twitched once.
Then silence.
Logan stared down at him, heart a hammer behind his ribs. He wanted to feel something. Guilt. Relief. Anything.
But all he felt was cold.
A voice outside.
"NO!"
Ivan.
Logan turned as the front door slammed open.
Ivan charged in, rifle raised.
Logan pulled the revolver.
One shot. One chance.
He fired.
The bullet tore into Ivan's leg. He screamed, collapsed hard, his weapon clattering away.
Logan rushed him, slamming a fist into his jaw. Then again. Until Ivan went still.
Logan sat back, breathing ragged.
The revolver slipped from his fingers. Empty.
He looked back at Dina. Still breathing.
We are fucked. He said and closed his eyes.